


He's Not Just a Genius; He Also Reads Minds

by wendymarlowe



Series: Mind-Reading, Empathy, and Other Assorted Useful Talents [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ESP, Empath John, Parapsychology, Telepath Sherlock, Telepathy, extra-sensory perception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:43:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is telepathic, John's a broadcasting empath, and both of them really ought to keep their secrets hidden.  Somehow, though, it doesn't work out that way.</p><p>(First installment in my parapsychology AU, in which several of the main Sherlock cast have psychic powers.  I'm intending an assortment of short fics in the same universe, but not necessarily one continuous plot.  Ratings will range from G to E.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [J. B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick](https://archiveofourown.org/works/390248) by [CharleyFoxtrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot). 



> I've already got too many Sherlock stories half-finished, but I read CharlieFoxtrot's fantastic "J.B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/390248) and it reminded me how much I still absolutely LOVE Anne McCaffrey's "Pegasus" series, in which most of the main characters have some form or another of ESP. I don't think I can commit to another long fic, but I've got so many ideas and I don't want to lose them :-P
> 
> The solution is this series. I've drawn inspiration from both Ms. McCaffrey's work and CharlieFoxtrot's reinterpretation, although obviously I've put my own spin on everything. I expect this will end up being several interrelated one-shots - some will be drabbles, some multiple chapters, some purely fluff, some flat-out slashy smut :-D (Johnlock and Mystrade being my two big weaknesses . . .) Everything fits within the same setting, but obviously each story will focus on some characters more than others and not every story will include the full world-building. I'll try to make everything bite-sized, but no promises!

Sherlock could tell the moment John figured out he was a telepath. Normally this would be unsurprising - part and parcel of being telepathic was picking up on stray thoughts - but this was _John_ and it made the entire situation weird and strange. John had always been the one person Sherlock couldn’t read. He assumed it was just a tight natural shield - some people had them and some didn’t, although nobody else had ever been quite as impenetrable as John was - but the look he was giving him was nothing short of epiphanic. 

“You knew she killed her husband.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The evidence was all right there.”

“No, I mean . . .” John’s eyes narrowed. “You _knew_ it. Before you even started looking around her flat. It wasn’t because of the evidence - that came afterward.”

Sherlock held himself perfectly poised, not allowing his body to betray him by even a hair’s breadth of movement. John couldn’t be entirely sure yet, couldn’t have convinced himself of the impossible-

“You knew it by looking at her.” John had drawn up to within an arm’s length of Sherlock now, peering up into his face as if the answer would be written there for him to read. “I know some of the Yarders tease you and say you must be telepathic - you really are, aren’t you?”

Would it look more suspicious if he held John’s gaze, or looked away? It was a moot point - Sherlock couldn’t keep from trembling if he tried to look John in the eye any longer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, the defense falling a bit flat when his voice quavered at the end.

“You do. You can literally read minds. Christ. And here I thought you were just bloody brilliant at deducing things.”

“Parapsychology, John? Really? I never pegged you for one to believe in magic powers. I _am_ brilliant at deducing things, and I don’t particularly care who thinks otherwise.”

John cocked his head to one side, frowning slightly.

“Sorry, should I have pretended to be more humble?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and tightened his voice into a blatant parody of its normal sonorous tone. “I’m just _lucky_ , is all! I merely _happened_ to _guess_ about your time in Afghanistan, your sister’s drinking habits, and your psychosomatic limp when I first met you.” He dropped his voice back to its usual register. “Honestly, John, you weren’t thinking any of those things at the time, so how would I have read your mind about them?”

“How would you know I wasn’t thinking any of those things if you couldn’t read my mind?”

“You’re impossible to read.” The admission slipped out before Sherlock could stop it.

And a hint of a smirk appeared at the corner of John’s mouth. “I know - I run a rather tight ship up there, not that you’d believe me with all your declarations about my idiocy. But I noticed you didn’t deny reading anyone _else’s_ mind.”

Sherlock shook his head. “ESP is an old wives’ tale - it was thoroughly debunked in the ‘70s. After several American scientists made fools of themselves insisting it must exist, which was rather unfortunate for them. Occam’s razor dictates-”

“-That the simplest solution is probably the correct one, yes, I know.” John’s smirk grew bigger. “And since I happen to know that ESP or parapsychic talents or whatever-you-want-to-call-it exist, the simplest explanation is that you’re telepathic.” He shrugged calmly. “You’re brilliant and your deductions are amazing, too, as I’m sure you’re aware, it’s just a nice surprise to find that I’ve discovered your secret.”

That was . . . interesting. Sherlock knew he was arguing more out of habit than anything else now, but he still wasn’t ready to actually admit anything - too many years of Mycroft drilling the need for secrecy into him. “You just _know_ it exists? What, saw it on the telly?”

John’s confident posture collapsed as a sharp _whoosh_ of air left his lungs. He looked down and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “You’re not just going to take my word for it, are you.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Fine. I . . . yeah, shit, this is harder than I thought. Can I just show you?”

“Not terribly difficult to read my mind right now - even a child could tell what I’m thinking.”

John looked back up. “Not thinking - feeling. Focus on that.”

Sherlock did. He was annoyed and a bit worried and - oh. _Damn._ The feeling of relief burst through him in a sudden wave, rocking him back on his heels. It took several seconds for him to realize that it quite literally had _physically_ knocked him backwards - his knees had given out and John was guiding him to his armchair.

“Shit, sorry,” John muttered from somewhere just to his left, arm tucked around Sherlock’s back to hold him up. “Didn’t mean to hit you that strongly.”

It was all Sherlock could do to just blink and stay upright. “You . . .” The rest of the words deserted him.

“Broadcasting empath,” John admitted with a note of embarrassment. “Kind of out of practice - I haven’t let that out since I got back to London. Here, you’ve got your balance now?”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes to collect himself. The chemical aftermath of John’s assault was like an EMP to his neural pathways - his hand still had a hint of a tremor, he noticed. “That was . . . amazing.”

“Thanks.” John crouched down on the floor at his feet, face coming back into view despite Sherlock still being curled into himself. “Not much call for it here - I just figured I’d have to keep it hidden forever. I’m not judging you - I get it, I really do.” He snorted softly. “Let me guess - Holmes family trait?”

“From our father’s side.” Sherlock swallowed hard - it was difficult to admit this, even to John, even after that demonstration that _yes_ they were in the same boat. “It does tend to be genetic, although parapsychic tendencies still are vanishingly rare. I’ve never met any others besides myself and Mycroft.”

“Same,” John said. “Well, me and Harry. And our mother, I suspect, although she never admitted it outright.”

A thought shone through, silver-bright and sharp. “She committed suicide.”

“Yeah.” John cocked his head to the side again and narrowed his eyes. “Did you deduce that, or did you hear me thinking about her just now?”

“I - um.” Sherlock was so rarely at a loss for words . . . “It’s not hearing, exactly, more like discerning a pattern in something that seemed at first to be totally random. You’re usually just a mess of mental static, but that one kind of stuck out.”

John grinned. “My brain isn’t actually static, not really, but I’m glad to know my shield is effective. I’ve always wondered - never got the chance to ask anyone who would know.” His expression sobered. “But yeah, she did. I think she was an empath like Harry - at least, as far as I can tell, remembering back. I don’t think she ever learned how to turn it all off. She drank all the time, hated to be around us. I think she wanted to love us, but . . . yeah.”

“Hard when your son broadcasts his every slight and your brain is tuned to receive everything tenfold.”

“Exactly.” John’s spine stiffened.

 _Shit._ That obviously hadn’t been the right thing to say - one of those elusive times where it would have been better to lie and hope to spare John’s feelings. Sherlock knew he was bollocks at that kind of thing, at interpersonal _emotion,_ but it was already out there between them. “Sorry,” he said belatedly.

“It’s okay.” John propelled himself upward and backward into his own armchair, so they could sit and talk face-to-face like normal people instead of Sherlock looking about to pass out and John crouching on the floor in front of him. “Tell me about yours, then.”

“Not much to tell.” Sherlock had no idea what _normal_ was when it came to this topic, but Mycroft and his bloody secrecy decree could go hang themselves. “Mycroft and I were tested for parapsychic abilities at a young age. We both showed some significant ability, Mycroft moreso than me. Father decreed we’d follow his footsteps into government service, he arranged for special tutors, and that was that.”

“If that were that, you’d be working alongside Mycroft.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, certain John could pick up the message even without actual telepathy. “Please. I’d be wasted in government work.”

“You’d be bloody brilliant at it, like you are with nearly everything else. But I have no doubt you’re happier solving crimes.”

Another thought, a bit looser this time, a hazy impression of an opinion rather than the sharp image of John’s mother Sherlock had gotten previously. The primary gist of the opinion seemed to revolve around Sherlock, his previous drug habits, and the certainty that he had wasted his potential just the same. Sherlock frowned. “It’s not what you think,” he said quickly.

“Isn’t it?”

“I . . . needed something to cut through the noise.” _God, the noise._ “You have no idea what it’s like, to be bombarded with the constant minutiae of idiots’ day-to-day lives. Cocaine dulls it. _Dulled_ it.”

“So does alcohol, and you can see what that’s done to Harry.”

He didn’t have an answer for that. _Although_ . . . “Couldn’t you just, oh, _make_ her be happy? Drown out everyone else’s signal with your own?”

“Yeah, probably.” John sat up a bit straighter, staring at him intently a moment, and then Sherlock stopped caring because something _wonderful_ was going on inside him. It wasn’t suffocating, didn’t dull his senses or his telepathy at all, just . . . _blanketed_ him with a sense of contentment, well-being, pleasure, absolute fucking _bliss._ It was like being stuck at the pinnacle of the cocaine high, when his nerves were all singing a polyphonic muddle of atonal motifs and then suddenly coalesced into a single, clear chord. Sherlock knew he was groaning aloud, probably making some sort of obscenely sexual noise of satisfaction, but he couldn’t be arsed to care about anything except the now-fading wave of _something_ fucking amazing. They sat in silence for a full minute as he drifted back down to earth.

“That was . . . _ngh._ ” Sherlock let his head drop back against the leather of his armchair. “That was better than cocaine, John. Why didn’t you tell me you could do that before?”

“You just said it.” John’s words were crisp, heavy, and Sherlock struggled back into some semblance of his normal self. “The _last_ thing you need is another cocaine. Same with Harry.”

Sherlock drew a breath, ready to argue, but had to admit John was right. If he had that on tap? He’d probably never eat or sleep again. He lowered his eyes in silent acknowledgement.

“So.” John leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees and his chin in one hand. “Are we good?”

 _Why wouldn’t we be?_ “. . . Yes?”

“We’re not going to get swarmed by a troop of stuffy men with guns now, are we? For admitting we each have a secret?”

Sherlock waved John’s objection away. “Mycroft probably isn’t listening at the moment, and he knows I’d kill him if he tried interfering. No one else would be in a position to do anything.”

“Okay.” John licked his lips, a nervous habit he had when he wanted to change the subject but wasn’t sure how to do it. “Right. So.”

“So we solved the case, it’s getting late, and I’m hungry. Ten minutes so we can change out of our crime scene clothes and we can go see if the Chinese place on the corner still has duck?”

John grinned. “Sold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . And we're off! No guarantees how often I'm going to be updating this series, so if you're inclined to bookmark it I suggest bookmarking the series and not just the individual fic. I'm marking this one as multiple chapters, though, because I do intend to add more later - if/when that happens, the "G" rating will probably go away :-P


	2. Chapter 2

He waited a full two days before bringing the subject up again.

"I've worked out a methodology for an experiment."

"No."

"But John, it would be-"

"No experiments, Sherlock. Not interested."

Sherlock stared blankly at him. "How could you not be interested? Don't you want to learn more about your parapsychic abilities?"

"Not particularly." John shrugged. "I know all I need to."

"But . . ." The concept of _knowing all you need to_ refused to coalesce in Sherlock’s brain. "What's your range? How many targets can you affect at once? Does your current state of health - hunger, sleep deprivation, and the like - affect your focus or strength? Are you able to affect a target without them realizing they're being manipulated?"

John sighed. "Line of sight, several, yes, and it depends. And yes, I know some of those answers are imprecise and no, I don't particularly care."

"You're not being fair." Sherlock was sporting his best petulant pout now, but John was used to it and it did no good. "Mycroft insists parapsychic abilities are a _secret_ and I haven't gotten to do any experiments about them in _ages_ and now here you are, it wouldn't be unethical as long as we work in the flat with just the two of us, and Mycroft stopped being willing to participate in my experiments when he went off to school so I've had to just work by myself. Which is an insurmountable barrier when studying telepathy."

"Can't help you there - I'm a broadcasting empath, if you didn't notice. Straight telepathy really isn't my area." John took a moment to mentally sift through Sherlock's outburst. "Wait - so Mycroft is a telepath too?"

Sherlock paused, weighing the chance to finally tell someone the _truth_ about Mycroft versus the very good chance Mycroft might have him deported to Siberia, and came down on the side of not giving a shit. “Broadcasting telepath. I’m told his abilities are rather frightening in their efficacy, actually.”

John frowned. “What’s the difference between a broadcasting telepath and what you do, then? I mean, the difference between me and Harry is obvious - I send things but can’t feel them, and she feels things but can’t send them. Is there more to it than that?”

“Much.” _He’d probably consider this conversation treason, but he can go suck an egg. You hear that, Mycroft?_ Sherlock didn’t think it loudly, not in the public part of his brain, but the tiny rebellion made him feel a bit better. “Yesterday I said he showed significant ability even as a child. That’s rather an understatement - my little parlor tricks pale in comparison.”

“You call _literally reading minds_ a parlor trick.”

Sherlock shrugged, then jumped up and started pacing aimlessly. The urge to _do_ something, to exercise his body like he was exercising his brain, was overwhelming. “I have limitations similar to yours. I need line of sight, I can’t focus when I’m high or exhausted or dehydrated or hungry, and I don’t really get to choose what thoughts I read. Telepathy doesn’t fit into detective work as much as you might think.”

“It would if you worked with live people more often.”

“That’s a significant argument in favor of the dead.”

John inclined his head, conceding the point. “So Mycroft can do more, I’m assuming?”

“He . . .” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, trying to find the best way to explain. “He’s got unlimited range, as far as I’ve been able to tell. Once he’s met you once, he can read you anytime he wants to, no matter where in the world you are. I don’t know how many minds he can track at once, but it’s got to be at least in the dozens.”

John snorted. “Let me guess - does this have anything to do with his tendency for kidnapping people?”

“And his success in his chosen career, yes. Nobody questions when he has impossible-to-acquire intelligence about something.” Sherlock smiled wryly. “Incidentally, I don’t believe he’s able to read you any better than I can. That must piss him off terribly.”

“Glad to help.”

“It was one of the reasons I found you a tolerable flatmate. You’re not a source of incessant blather in my own mind, and Mycroft can’t use you to spy on me.” He shrugged. “Not that he doesn’t have other, more conventional means, obviously, but I do like keeping some things private.”

“You said he broadcasts, though?”

“That’s the insidious part.” If Sherlock was being truthful with himself, he’d have to admit it was a good thing his and Mycroft’s roles weren’t reversed - Mycroft’s abilities seemed to require a depressing amount of ethical navel-gazing, which Sherlock very definitely felt no interest in doing. “You may wake up one day and find that you suddenly have the urge to go visit your mother, or to take a walk in the park, or to skip work and lie in bed for the rest of the morning. And you’ll never know whether it was actually your own idea or whether Mycroft planted it there.”

John gaped at him. “That’s . . . it’s bloody terrifying, actually.”

“Like I said, your mental shield is probably sufficient to keep him out. It took me several years to do the same.”

“He’d try to make you-” John gestured vaguely. “You know. Mind control or whatnot?”

“I was generally considered a phenomenally quiet and well-behaved child for, as I said, several years. I eventually learned to fight back.”

“Christ.” John closed his eyes. “I can’t even imagine.”

It wasn’t really as bad as he was making it sound, Sherlock knew - he had been naturally quiet even before Mycroft started experimenting on him. And the thoughts had been subtle - a suggestion to sit and read here, a sudden memory of the consequences for misbehaving there. Nothing he wasn’t already expected to be doing. Mycroft may have even thought he was being a good big brother, ensuring Sherlock sat still and paid attention in class or didn’t interrupt Aunt Minnie at Christmas dinner. He didn’t have a concept of personal boundaries even back then.

“How did you ‘fight back?’”

Sherlock grinned. “Cocaine.”

“Christ.”

 _Okay, not strictly true._ “Actually, I spent nearly a month picking over his thoughts every time he masturbated, and filled my sketchbook with the results. I threatened to send a copy of the contents to everyone pictured, plus all the other boys at his school, if he ever meddled with my brain again. He hasn’t.”

“You can tell?”

“I can now.”

John blew out a long breath. “Right. So - just for the record - if I didn’t find your older brother bloody terrifying before, now I do.”

“Whenever he starts irritating me, I focus on thoughts of cakes.”

That produced a startled laugh, which in turn dragged a rueful smile out of Sherlock. “If his telepathy works similarly to mine,” he said, “he can’t tune out surface thoughts entirely. I just think about how hungry I am, and how good a slice of chocolate cake would be right about now, and how sinfully delicious the frosting tastes on my tongue . . . he turns positively green whenever he’s on one of his diets. I highly recommend trying it.”

“I don’t think I could pull that off.” John shook his head and snorted. “I’ll know to be careful, though.”

“You already are. Your shield is quite impressive, as I already said.” Sherlock cocked his head to one side in a way he knew John found endearing. “You won’t even let me describe my proposed experiment to you?”

“Why?”

“It’s nothing you’d object to, I promise.” He bit his lip and widened his eyes, just for good measure. “Please, John.”

He felt it a moment later - a sensation of mild amusement. It felt natural, perfectly reasonable to be entertained by this conversation, but it took a few seconds and John’s unwavering attention before Sherlock suddenly realized the truth. “Oh!”

“You’re really rather blatant, you know that?”

The delightful tickle in his abdomen intensified, until Sherlock couldn’t control his burgeoning smile any longer. “John . . .”

“Fine. Sit, explain, and use small words.” The feeling of mirth receded, but Sherlock found he really didn’t mind. Didn’t mind the intrusion and didn’t mind when it left.

 _Because it’s John._ Sherlock took a deep breath, lowered himself onto the arm of his chair, and started explaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, no smut yet :-P Wanted to get the bit about Mycroft out here too, though - I'm open to ideas/suggestions for fun things to happen in this world. Setting this up as a series of anecdotes instead of one long story gives me the freedom to bounce around between smut, fluff, utterly ridiculous crack, and "holy crap I didn't know I wanted that but now I totally do" fics :-D Leave me a comment if you have an idea - I won't promise I'll write all of them, but I'll certainly take them all into consideration!


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade showed up right on time, which was one of his more predictable traits. Sherlock ushered him into the flat and offered him tea with an enthusiasm which left the man surreptitiously sneaking glances around the flat.

“Searching for hidden cameras?” John asked.

“Figured something strange must be going on,” he answered, plopping down into chair opposite John’s at their small table. “I don’t think I’ve ever, in all my years of knowing him, had Sherlock offer me tea. Didn’t think he even knew how to make the stuff - don’t you usually do that for him?”

John snorted. “I do it for _me_ , and I occasionally offer to pour him a cup since I was in the kitchen anyway. It gives me leverage when I insist he keep his experiments out of the bathtub, though, so it’s all good.”

“I don’t even want to know.” Lestrade leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to the side, studying John. “Any idea why I’m here, by the way? Sherlock said it was urgent, but neither of you seem to be bleeding, so . . .”

“It’s an experiment,” Sherlock called before John could answer with something idiotic. “And it is urgent - I needed you here before John could change his mind. Tea.” He set down two cups on the table, John’s with milk and no sugar (he knew the correct proportions even though this was the first time he’d made tea since John moved in) and Lestrade’s with just a dash of each. No particular reason to memorize the DI’s tea preferences, but the man was too polite to complain so it didn’t really matter anyway.

Lestrade took a tentative sip. He waited for John to drink first, Sherlock noticed, in what was probably a futile attempt to avoid being poisoned - as if he’d be able to avoid it if Sherlock were so inclined. He cleared his throat and set his cup down pointedly. “Am I going to object to this experiment?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock promised. Semi-truthfully. “It’s more of a study, actually - practicing my deduction skills.”

“What he means is, he thinks he’s infallible,” John helpfully interjected. “You and I are supposed to text back and forth about whatever we feel like, and Sherlock is going to watch us do it. If he can ‘deduce’ the content of our texts from our body language, I owe him dinner. If he can’t, he’s got to clean out the refrigerator and bin everything that isn’t food. Needless to say, I very much appreciate your help on this one.”

“Ah.” Lestrade’s lips twitched in the _don’t-let-Sherlock-know-I-think-he’s-about-to-be-shown-up_ expression he so often tried to hide. “Yeah, I guess I can do that. I’m going to claim a payment too, though - John, if I help you win, you cover our next pub night. Sherlock, if by some bloody miracle you can pull this off, you fill out your paperwork _in full_ next time I call you in. And I mean the day of, not weeks later. However this goes, you both owe me for humoring you.”

“Deal.” He’d expected Lestrade to demand more than that, actually. One case worth of paperwork - which he’d have been forced to do eventually - wasn’t bad at all. “Ready, then? I’ve provided tea, which means I’ve fulfilled my responsibilities as a host, which John insists is important. You both have your phones. I’ll be on the sofa with my laptop, taking notes. Five texts each should be sufficient, don’t you think?”

John cocked an eyebrow. “Five is fine - do you care who starts?”

“You might as well - you’ve spent the last hour debating which seemingly-unpredictable topic to introduce.” Sherlock removed himself to the sofa, pulled up his word processing program, and waited expectantly.

“Right.” John caught Lestrade’s eye, then pulled out his phone and started typing. He kept it firmly below the edge of the table, low enough Lestrade couldn’t see it either, but the movement of his forearms still made it trivial to guess what he was actually saying.

 _Well, trivial given the clear mental signals he’s sending._ Sherlock caught a crisp picture of a muddy labrador retriever romping along a riverbank alongside a much younger John, both of them just happy to enjoy the sunshine. The image contained a hint of a question - asking Lestrade if he’d ever owned any pets, then. John must have been consciously keeping his mental static at bay. Sherlock resolved to prod him into further experiments later on the topic.

The exchange went far too quickly to analyze contemporaneously, but Sherlock kept all the data for later. He couldn’t see Lestrade’s right arm, so couldn’t deduce _everything_ he was texting, but the images in the man’s head were almost simplistic in their clarity. The wording was immaterial.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, then,” Lestrade demanded as soon as he set down his phone after the last text. “Are you looking for exact wording, or just a general impression?”

“General impression is fine.” John shot a quick glance at Sherlock, then rolled his eyes dramatically for Lestrade’s benefit. “Not that he’s going to be close.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “First text was John asking if you’ve ever owned a pet. You said you did, a ginger shorthair kitten when you were very young, but you had to get rid of it because your father was allergic. John expressed sympathy and shared about his cat allergy, too - complete bunk, by the way, John. You’ve grown out of it by now. Anyway, you then changed the subject to the utterly predictable and asked what set me off with this ‘experiment’ and - despite knowing me better than this - thought it was hilarious I was going to be embarrassed at my own hubris. John gave you a cock-and-bull story about a dramatic bet, which you asked to be clarified and John said happened over an episode of _Fawlty Towers_. Which is a lie because I have never yet voluntarily sat through that tripe.”

“Sherlock,” John said, a warning in his voice.

“Right. So that’s up to seven. Eight was your astonishment that I’ve watched the telly at all, nine was John assuring you that I mostly only put up with it when I’m ‘in a strop’ - his words - and ten was you admitting that sounded more likely and suggesting John make me sit through a James Bond marathon if he hasn’t already. Did I miss anything?”

John and Lestrade both scrolled back through their phones, re-reading. Which was unnecessary, because Sherlock knew he was right-

“You know, this explains a lot,” Lestrade said, tossing his phone back down on the table. “That was rather impressive, by the way.”

John was frowning at his screen. “You were close enough on most of it, but where did James Bond come from? Neither of us mentioned movies - Greg’s last text was just that you’re often in a strop.”

“No, that was right.” Lestrade cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. “I purposely put the suggestion of a James Bond marathon in the forefront of my mind while I was texting. Figured it would prove my theory right. And it did.” He abruptly shrugged and leaned back in his chair, tipping it to balance on the two back legs. “You do read minds, right? I mean, that’s what this was all about?”

John’s blank, gaping expression would have been more comical if Sherlock hadn’t known he was probably doing the same thing.

“I’ve suspected for a while,” Lestrade continued, “but I guess it’s kinda nice to find out for sure. How easy am I to read?”

His public mind was awhirl with images of Sherlock - memories of times they were on crime scenes and he made some particularly brilliant deduction. Hints of wariness, never overt, but building over time. “Not as bad as some,” Sherlock finally admitted. He’d never picked up on Lestrade’s suspicion, after all - not that he’d been looking for it, but still.

“That’s good to know, I guess.” Lestrade smiled a tight little smile. “Never actually met a telepath in person other than my great-grandmother, so I never was really sure whether she was having me on or not. Funny, the things you remember some forty years later.”

The conversation prompted a clear picture of a tiny old French lady, stooped with osteoporosis and nearly blind behind giant trifocals but with incredibly bright eyes nonetheless. A treasured family member, then, judging by the reverence with which Lestrade remembered her. “She died when you were six.”

“Yeah.”

“You were her favorite. The only great-grandson, and she loved your father more than your aunt anyway.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade looked away and shook his head. Regret, annoyance with Sherlock (although that one was close enough to a constant that Sherlock had learned to tune it out most of the time), and concern about-

“I’m not likely to go public,” he said with a bit more bite than necessary.

John looked from one to the other with a frown. “I feel obliged to point out that _I can’t bloody well read minds_ so I’d prefer you keep this conversation verbal, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Lestrade was concerned I’d announce what he was thinking in situations he’d rather keep his ideas to himself. But I’m not going to advertise my abilities, so neither of you have any reason to worry.”

John and Lestrade shared a look - one Sherlock didn’t need to breach John’s mental shield to interpret. It seemed equal doses of _we do know you, you know_ and _bullshit_.

“Well then.” Lestrade stood, nodding politely to John. “I’m going to do some mind-reading of my own and say yes, I’m willing to come back for the next round of this ridiculous experiment. Next week, same time sounds good. And from now on, you two are buying me dinner whenever we do this - takeaway Chinese or curry are my top choices usually.”

“Oh thank God.” John’s hasty exclamation forestalled the sarcastic retort Sherlock had been about to make. “Although - you know he’s only going to get worse, right?”

Lestrade snorted. “Yeah, but it will be a controlled detonation. Less chance for debris. I’ll take my chances.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to cap this particular fic here, mostly so I have more freedom to play with other ideas I've had in this universe :-) Next fic in this series will be about Mycroft - and where he should and shouldn't be poking his nose - so stay tuned!


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